Profound Contingency
by The Professional Amateur
Summary: The Tale of a Dragonborn who is on the verge of losing his grip on reality; as he slowly becomes more and more committed to acts of evil, his sanity slips further and further away... Rated M for violence, and nothing more.


**Alright, you guys. I recently decided that Skyrim doesn't allow your characters much depth in the cases of good deeds and evil ones, so I'm going to make a good tale of an evil character, and the forces of good and evil will do battle! (eventually) Bear with me, my fellow people-tarts, for I'm going to make some changes to the realism of the game. Be warned, these first two or three chapters are going to mostly comprise of character building. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The stag was grazing peacefully in a small clearing in the forests of Falkreath. The sun was beginning to set, and the animal had just roused from its afternoon slumber. It lifted its head up a time or two, listening intently for the telltale sounds of a stalking predator, but was rewarded with nothing but the chirp of crickets and the odd branch shifting in the wind.

Even with the enhanced perception that comes with the prolonged experience of being prey to the predators of Skyrim, the deer had not noticed the lone figure peering at it from the shadows of the tree line. The figure was crouched among the brush, sitting with an unnatural stillness that comes only with the practice of extensive routine.

Suddenly, the figure, a male clad in heavy armor, leapt from his crouched position, closing half of the distance between his self and his prey in nearly an instant. The stag reacted swiftly, thrusting its body in the direction opposite of the new threat, but it was not nearly swift enough. Before the animal's instinctive reaction could propel it away from immediate danger, the point of the Daedric dagger had already punctured its gut, just forward of its left hind leg.

The beast tore away from his weapon, making the wound even more severe. The man wasted no time, sprinting directly after the deer. The attempt seemed futile, a lone man chasing such an agile creature, until the man suddenly shouted "_Fus!"_

An invisible thrust of force hit the animal like a powerful gust of wind. The stag stumbled, if only for a second, but that was enough for the armor clad figure to be upon it. The devilish-looking dagger struck the deer for a second and third time, first at the center of its right hind kneecap, and again in the upper part of the same leg, were the man released the weapon, leaving it embedded deep in the flesh and muscle.

The deer veered right, cringing and nearly falling at the brutal pain that came with the use of its wounded leg, giving the assailant another opening. The man used the claws of his metallic glove to slash at the face of the deer, but had not expected the animal to balk from pain. Instead, his hand ripped flesh from the beast's throat. Blood began flooding freely from the new wound. In a moment of desperation, the deer turned to face its attacker.

Seeing the creature's change in tactics, the man used his momentum to perform a twisting grapple on the stag's neck and antlers. The beast awkwardly collapsed onto the man, who had begun wrapping his legs around the torso of the deer's body.

With his legs firmly clasped around the deer, the man forcefully twisted its neck. Following a loud crack, the animal ceased struggling. The beast was dead.

This was the how the man, better known as the Dragonborn, had spent a good portion of the last 3 years following the defeat of Alduin; Slaughtering the wildlife of Skyrim, enjoying the horrible screeches that came with the pain he caused.

The deer happened to had been the only animal the Dragonborn had seen that day, as he usually chose to attack more ferocious beasts such as wolves, sabre cats, bears, or, on the rare sighting of one, even dragons. But the latter were becoming fewer and fewer in number. In the two years alone, the Dragonborn had slain nearly a hundred dragons, usually reveling in the thrill and adrenaline that came in those battles. Even Paarthurnax, the leader of the Greybeards, had been of no challenge to the great warrior.

The Dragonborn removed his dagger from the deer's hide and licked the blood from it. He trembled with the pleasure that the taste of warm blood brought him. It was an almost ritual for him to, after each kill, lick his blade.

He returned the blade to its sheath on his right hip. It was part of his personally crafted set of Daedric armor, which he had made at the end of his apprenticeship under Eorlund Gray-Mane. He had surpassed the master blacksmith's skill surprisingly quickly, although it had taken most of his fortune to convince the man to train him to begin with. Now the armor served him well, holding up against even the most powerful swing a sword or slash of a claw, and the weaponry staying sharp and deadly. He had grown accustomed to the added weight, and it was no longer of much hindrance his movement. Crafting it, of course, had cost him a hefty number of septims as well.

But the Dragonborn had no need for money now. His destiny was clear to him: to destroy every creature not directly beneficial to humans. He did not remember when he had acquired such a hatred for animals, but it was probably due to the return of the dragons.

Or, at least, that's what he thought of himself. In actuality, his sanity was slipping. He enjoyed sadistically torturing creatures; the pain brought him joy. He could barely remember his own name sometimes. Zego. (Zay-go) That's the name his parents had given him all of those years ago. It was original name, that unlike any other Imperials'.

After the family's relocation to Skyrim during economically troubling times, Zego had taken up fighting, hoping to one day be a guard, or join the army, or maybe even make a name for himself as a mercenary. Less than four years ago, when his parents had been killed by a werewolf, Zego had still been a teenager. He tried to escape back to Cyrodil, but was caught at the border. And that's when the true insanity had started…

Zego ripped the flesh from the dead creature's body and crammed it into his mouth; oh, how he relished the taste of raw venison. The blood of the animal stained his gloves, but he didn't mind. There was already a soft, eerie red hue about the armor. The Dragonborn was unsure of the reason behind it, but suspected that the blood of the Daedra had imbued the high quality metal with magical properties.

The miniscule sound of a leaf crunching as weight was placed on it from several yards away and to his left alerted him of a presence. He did not flinch or even pause from his activity of consuming the still warm body of the deceased creature, but he was aware. A second sound, nearly identical to the first but with subtle differences, was made from about the same distance away, but this time from directly to his right. This was a sign of an ambush.

Abruptly, a third creature, which he had not yet sensed, lunged at him from behind.

* * *

**Rate, Review, and Stay Tuned.**


End file.
